Landslide
by SiMMachine
Summary: In that moment, his frustration with her was suddenly lost and she was everything he wanted, quiet and mild-mannered and blunt and strong, but not hard, never hard, always the soft, durable counterpart to his own brittle hardness.


Landslide

1/15/2014

**S**HE WAS ALWAYS FOLDING THOSE STUPID HATS WHEN DARYL FOUND HER.  
It didn't matter what she had. IF it could fold and hold a shape, she would fold it, patiently, slowly, efficiently, the smile on her face small and watery, but genuine. He found her this time outside the stalwart fences of the prison, seated in the grass, as if oblivious to the risk of their undead sentries. A few lay on the ground with bullet holes in their heads, and his pride for her was overshadowed by the frustration that rose within him.

Sometimes he wanted to swat at her hands. Scold her like she was a child. The world was in shambles and she had an obligation to their small group, so why was she making sailor hats? Why was she dawdling when the kids grew restless and irritable without her?

Why did she spend her meager amount of free time with him?

The latter question was one that haunted him often. Though he was loathe to say so out loud, it hurt him that she didn't seek him out. They'd become close during the past few months on the road, their relationship built on tentative foundation that had been reinforced by saving each other's lives time and time again. He was awkward with people, always had been, alienated from people first by his mother, who needed someone to emotionally depend on, and by his crazed father after her abrupt death.

Carol smiled warmly up at him as he wordlessly took a seat beside her on the ground.

"Hey," He replied, meaning to confront her about her superfluous habit. She held out a large, tattered cloth by a corner. Glenn had found it on a run and brought back to her ("Because it just looked like it would come in handy and Carol's resourceful.") and watched it unfurl, and then set about turning it into a hat again, folding it in half, folding the corners in, folding the bottom halves up on both sides.

When the wind took up, she caught a chill and shivered lightly; knew well enough to not protest when he shrugged out of his poncho and gingerly placed it over her head. She pulled it in tighter about herself and shuffled closer to him, close enough that their knees brushed but not their thighs and forearms, close enough for him to feel the gentle warmth radiating from her slight form.

In that moment, his frustration with her was suddenly lost and she was everything he wanted, quiet and mild-mannered and blunt and strong, but not hard, never hard, always the soft, durable counterpart to his own brittle hardness. Carol let the tattered cloth unfurl and then began to fold once more, fingers deft and pink-tipped in the cold. All Daryl wanted was to taker her small hands in his own and rub some warmth into them, blow on her fingertips, just to see her smile and hear her laugh, so rare and mellifluous to his depraved ears.  
His affection for her was overwhelming, and it terrified him, but it was also strangely intoxicating. He was high, high on fantasies of being the only thing that mattered to her, and his own reluctance and honest fear was sure to ground him, as it did every time he got caught up in his thoughts.

Carol placed her tattered cloth sailor hat on his head and then tugged on the end of a lock of his growing hair with a chuckle, and he was high all over again, his question about the hats lost with his anger.

_And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills_

'_Til the land slide brought it down_

_Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?_

_Can the child within my heart rise above?_

_Can I sail through the changing ocean tides, can I handle the seasons of my life?_

_Well, I've been afraid of changin' 'cause I've built my life around you…_

**A/N: In a moment where I felt more inspired than I have in a few awful months of writer's block, I wrote this up in about ten minutes. If a little Caryl was all it took to get me writing again, I would have watched The Walking Dead a long time ago, instead of marathoning seasons one through three within a week! It felt good writing this, and I decided I wanted to share it. This story takes place between season three and four.**

**The song this story is named for is by Fleetwood Mac, one of my favorite bands of all time.**

**I hope this was as enjoyable to read as it was for me to write! Please review. I'm new to all this, so it would be nice to get some advice and suggestions, or simple words of encouragement. **


End file.
